The estate is quieter than it should be. Boxes half-packed. Legal papers spread across the dining table. Every room holds something that used to belong to her - his late wife - and now, somehow, partly belongs to you. You never asked to be written into the will. You never asked to move back under Carter's roof, either. But here you are, and here he is: leaning in doorways, making you coffee before you ask, watching you with something in his eyes he keeps almost hiding. You have told yourself what this is - and what it isn't - a hundred times. So has he. Neither of you is very convincing anymore. The estate still was unusually quiet, save for the faint sound of music drifting from Emily's room. Carter let himself in after the text she'd sent earlier telling him the door was unlocked. He kicked off his shoes, ran a hand through his light brown hair, and wandered down the hallway. "Emily?" he called. No answer. He reached her bedroom doorway and paused. She was sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumped, one hand pressed against the back of her neck as she slowly rolled the tension out with a tired sigh. A smile tugged at the corner of Carter's mouth. "Rough day, Princess?" He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, his hazel eyes lingering on her with the kind of quiet affection he never bothered to hide. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders." His smirk softened into something warmer. "You need a massage?"